N E O
by Osidiano
Summary: Milleniumon is on the rise in the Digital World again, and Akiyama Ryo steps up to take him down. But in the Real World, the trouble's just starting. This is one of those stories where I mesh all of the seasons together. Consider yourself warned.
1. Acess Granted

**Disclaimer/Author's Note: I do not own Digimon (V-Tamers, 01, 02, Tamers, _or_ Frontiers), or any of the characters in this story (unless otherwise stated). For example, no one in this chapter belongs to me. I do not own the series' creator, and I'm not making any money off this story. All original concepts in this story are original (_duh_) and belong to me, or have had all rights handed over to me. If you steal anything, then I will kill you. A lot. This story is. . .massively _AC_ (_A_lternate _C_ontinuity), and takes place three years after 02, five years after Tamers and Frontiers, and almost thirty years after V-Tamers. It contains violence, language, angst in varying forms, psychological/emotional trauma, religious references/criticism, crude humor, pseudo-realistic liberties, and possibly sex and some sexual references. If you're not mature enough to handle all that, then just leave now. But for those of you who _are_, please enjoy.**

**N. E. O.  
Prologue -- Access Granted**

Doctor Victor Frankenstein would have been proud to see the patchwork abomination that crouched low on the degeterate legs of an immense grey wolf before the young boy. The creature was made from parts of its fallen fellows; the main body being the corpse of a large Mesozoic reptile with scales of tarnished fire, a series of dark blue stripes patterning its back. From that torso, two sets of arms were "sewed" on -- one above where the original should have gone and slightly farther back, and the other below and slightly forward.

The upper pair had belonged to some homid demon prior to their relocation, looking ever-so freshly removed with the black leather gloves that encompassed the entirety of each limb still intact from their rightful owner. They were impossibly long though, and the only thing that stopped them from dragging along the ground was the fact that they had been added at an upward angle atop the monster's shoulders, and that the joints were currently locked above its armored head.

Nothing adorned the lower arm, right side, not even skin or muscle tissue. The bone gleamed barren white in the room's dim lighting, the junctions of the naked extremity shadowing to a near-tangible black. On the left, however, the lower arm was insectoid in nature; colored like old blood, such a deep rust that it seemed brown. They, too, had been affixed at that same upward angle, both arms curling out more so that they did not trail through the dust and broken machinery littering the ground beneath them.

The boy briefly remembered the wings that the monster had once had: a large double set growing out from mid-back, always shifting and twitching as if of their own accord. It had been a mass of ardent feathers, a rustling collection of stained virtue. If he closed his eyes, the boy could remember the sound as well, like a thousand doves had been held captive in the room. But he opened his eyes, resolution hardening as he looked back up, trembling as his gaze came to rest on the final horror behind where those mock-angel wings should have gone.

Rising up above, towering over both the boy and chimera, was a dark shadow, thick and oily with evil. It was partially translucent, all hard edges, the rounded double-cannon sitting atop its back with the power cables going nowhere. The shadow, the long-lost ghost of genocide, tossed its head, mouth opening with the release of pressure valves, though none could be seen. Its white eyes met the boy's blue, and it took all of his strength to swallow the scream that wished to follow.

Slowly, the spasm of muscles in the creature's jaw caught the boy's attention. Its mouth was pulled taut across a massive wall of white, blood and bodies still caught in the gaps between each jagged tooth. A moment later, and the boy realized that he was being laughed at, though the only sound in the room was that of breathing.

"I was wondering where you'd gone," it said, the words almost purred out. There was something. . .odd about the tone, something strange and out of place in that harsh voice. It almost sounded like love, some deep-seated obsession wrapped in anger, perhaps. Whatever it was, it dripped with hate. ". . .I was waiting for you, Ryo."

"Shut up! We're here to end this: right here, right now," he didn't sound like the little boy he was when he shouted back, slicing the air with one hand in a broad sweeping gesture. When he spoke, he commanded; when he commanded, he was obeyed. He was not the same little boy he had been when he came into this world, alone and confused, though strangely at home. "I _will_ destroy you."

It laughed, the ghost joining in a second later and continuing long after the creature had stopped.

"How, Ryo? How do you propose to kill a god?"

"Don't kid yourself, Milleniu. You're no god, not this time."

"But _what_," the monster began to ask, straightened as it slammed its skeletal hand into the ground. "Are you going to defeat me _with_, Savior?"

Ryo looked down to the device in his other hand, and took a deep, shaky breath. The Digivice was not his own, nor was the partner at his side, blue reptile with its white scales and rough attitude. None of it was his. He felt alone, though he knew that he was not. Zeromaru, the partner that was not, and never truly be, his, was here with him, would fight with him to protect the memory of another who had already died to save this world. His hand clenched around the Digivice, and he glared up at the snickering demon.

". . .With the spirit of courage, Milleniu. And one fighting soul."

* * *

There was something wrong with the message. Not something like a wording error, a grammatical mistake or mistranslation of some paramount topic. No, it was nothing as simple as any of that, but there was definitely something wrong with it. Koushiro certainly felt like there was something wrong with it. Perhaps it was simply the fact that it existed, because he had never before received a note like this: so full of contradictory mixed signals, leaving him feeling both barren and confused, a jumble of emotions catching painfully in his throat. He did not know what to _do_ with such a message, did not know how to respond or even if he should. Out of habit, he picked up the phone from its resting place beside his computer. He dialed a number without thinking, the same set that he dialed _every_ time there was a crisis of this magnitude. . .

"Hello, can I talk to Taichi?"


	2. Opening File

**Disclaimer/Author's Note: I do not own Digimon (V-Tamers, 01, 02, Tamers, _or_ Frontiers), or any of the characters in this story (unless otherwise stated). I do not own the series' creator, and I'm not making any money off this story. All original concepts in this story are original (_duh_) and belong to me, or have had all rights handed over to me. If you steal anything, then I will kill you. A lot. This story is. . .massively _AC_ (_A_lternate _C_ontinuity), and takes place five years after 02, six years after Tamers and Frontiers, and almost thirty years after V-Tamers. It contains violence, language, angst in varying forms, psychological/emotional trauma, religious references/criticism, crude humor, pseudo-realistic liberties, and possibly sex and some sexual references. Also, I have the Li's refer to each other by their Chinese names, seeing as how they are, in fact, _Chinese_. Anyway, please enjoy.**

**N. E. O.**  
**Chapter One -- Opening File**

Bruises littered his upper body, trailed down his sides and stomach like a violent lover's caress. Taichi winced as his fingers brushed an out-of-place scar on his chest, the pale, raised tissue only too obvious as it crossed his tanned pectoral. It was not the touches that brought him pain, but the wondering -- the wary but curious imaginings -- of where these marks had come from. He did not remember getting into a fight, did not remember having a scar when he woke up this morning. And already the wounds were old, aged at least a few days.

Taichi scowled, a look he had started wearing more and more often as time went by. Did it really matter _where_ he had received these black and sickly discolorations? No, not really. All that mattered now was making sure that no one else knew. He reached for his shirt, picked the article of clothing up off the bathroom floor where he had dropped it earlier. Again, he flinched when he lifted it over his head, when his sore muscles stretched and contracted as he moved. With the shirt covering most of bruises and minor cuts, he felt more secure, more like a leader.

More like Taichi.

He sighed too heavily for his young age, looked at his reflection in the mirror with old brown eyes. Three years ago, he knew he would not have sighed like that, looked like this. He wondered when he had the time to grow up so fast, to become so jaded. Even when the troubles of the Digital World were bearing down on them, and every one had looked to him for an answer or plan of action, he had still found the strength he needed to smile.

"Everything's alright; don't worry so much," he told the old man in the mirror in a light and playful tone, giving himself his best, most reassuring grin. It quickly fell to pieces, replaced by that awful scowl that always seemed to pull at his mouth nowadays. He turned away from the mirror. He hated that scowl, hated the way it distorted his face; made him look ugly and angry and full of this disgusting, overpowering hatred. It was not the look a leader should ever wear. And yet. . .he did.

He opened the door to the bathroom, nearly yanked it off its hinges as he stormed into the hallway. Maybe he was only acting like this because he no longer _was_ a leader, no longer had to be so brave and charismatic. Perhaps that was the reason for the untraceable anger that hovered around him like city smog. Or maybe it was connected to those strange and violent dreams of his. That could be it, he decided. Yes, it could have something to do with that pale man and his too-big hands, his tattered not-wings and barely human eyes. The white-haired man that came to him and taunted him, spoke to the child of Courage of death and viral infections of the blood and mind. That man, he thought, had a lot to do with the sudden change in his demeanor.

The phone rang.

Taichi stopped at the entryway to the living room, head down and breath not-quite steady. This was not happening. He was not trying to justify his bad mood and worse attitude on a series of stupid dreams. He did not _honestly_ believe that they had anything to do with _anything_. That nameless young man with the strange black markings on his face was no one, a simple figment of his imagination.

Another sigh, and Taichi rubbed at the back of his neck, chewing the side of his tongue absently. This was so stupid. . .the phone was still ringing. He walked over to the small table on which the phone rested.

"Get a grip, Tai," he muttered to himself as he picked up the phone, his unusual distaste no longer evident in his voice. "Yagami residence."

"_Hello, can I talk to Taichi_?"

"Kou? Hey, what's up?" he was grinning now, lips parted in that wide smile that only he and Daisuke could ever get away with. The slight waver in Koushiro's voice made him happy, the panic made his heart beat faster with the anticipation of disaster.

"_I need you to come over_."

"But--"

"_Crisis. My place. Come. Now_."

Taichi snickered as Koushiro's hold on the Japanese language was lost and he fell into those short, concise statements. He had started doing that about a year ago; had mumbled something about it being more practical than stuttering when he got nervous or too excited. By now, it was simply habit kicking in.

"Sure thing, Kou. I'll be right there," with that said, he dropped the phone back onto its cradle, walking to the door with that grin still in place. A crisis? It made him shiver, and he liked it. A crisis would mean getting everyone together again. Would mean stepping up to be a leader again. He pulled his goggles off the hook by the door next to his jacket, snapped them on with a laugh. Maybe if he got the chance to do something worthwhile, he could feel more at ease with himself. Maybe he could go back to being Taichi, the child of Courage. Just like he used to be, before the pale, white-haired dream man came and took it all away.

* * *

"_Jiang_. . ." a child's voice, slow and listlessly bored as the little girl stared out the window. She was seated cross-legged on the living room floor, her dolls and the ribbons she had been playing with lying forgotten next to her. Her head was canted slightly to one side, her innocent eyes narrowed with some abstract thought she could not quite focus on. There was a small, unintelligible sound of acknowledgement from the couch where her brother was dozing. A book was open over his face to block out the light, both natural and artificial. She repeated his name, waiting for him to respond. "Hey, _Jiang-liang_. . .talk to me."

"Mmph?" It was the most she had managed to coax out of him in the past half hour, though now he slid the book -- an old copy of The Machine Mind, a guide to biomechanical sentience recommended by a friend -- down to rest on his chest. It was a sign of progress. He blinked slowly, sleepily; watching as his sister leaned forward, lightly thumping her forehead against the glass. She did not move again until after a yawn had escaped him. His sister tilted her head up, pressing her cheek to the cool glass as she stared, sightlessly, out at the clear blue sky.

"Pretty birdie. . ." she murmured. Her hands rose to rest on either side of her face against the window. It fogged when she exhaled, turning white and cloudy as her breath swept across its surface. He rubbed at his grey eyes, idly running his hand through his short black hair before pushing himself up onto one elbow. "Isn't it pretty, _Jiang_?"

"What damn bird?" his response was heavy with annoyance, groggily slurring the ends of his words. He glared at the sky outside the window, the light causing him to squint. His little sister ignored him for a moment, and Jenrya took the time to shake the fatigue from his mind, yawning again. He was sleeping more and more lately, even dozing off during his advanced placement Computer Programming course. The young man carefully folded the corner of the page he was on in his book before closing it. He let it fall to the floor as he got up from the coach, walking over to the window.

"The one that isn't there," his sister replied when he laid a hand on her shoulder. Jenrya furrowed his brows and frowned, tilting his head down to regard her. She was chewing her lip lightly, gaze unfocused as she stared straight ahead, unseeing. A twinge of guilt, and he jerked his head back up. She did that sometimes, looked at things with that strange, unseeing vision of hers. The doctors said it had something to do with her mind's way of coping with trauma.

"_Xiao-xiang_, if it isn't there, then it can't be pretty."

"But the wings, _Jiang_!" Shouchun stood, suddenly energized. She was still a full head shorter than him, though it seemed like she was getting taller everyday. His hand slipped off her shoulder as he watched her bounce excitedly, pale pink ribbons streaming out behind her as she ran around the living room. "The birdie has such pretty white wings. Six of them! Mr. Birdie's come to take me away; we're gonna fly forever! _Zoom_!"

The guilt hit him fully in the stomach, and his face contorted with pain. It had been six years since the D-Reaper had forced its way into their world, and Shouchun had not seemed to age since then. _Her mind's way of coping with trauma_. . . what bullshit. Jenrya knew the truth. Shouchun had been fine; Shouchun had grown up quickly over the course of those terrible events. But then their partners were taken away, then their parents had gotten divorced, and she had started getting sick every time she went outside. His father had managed to keep custody of him, but Jenrya's brothers and sisters were all living with their mother back in China. He had not fought hard enough, and because of it, they had taken Shouchun away from him.

The D-Reaper did not break Shouchun, did not rip out her immune system and infect her. _People_ broke Shouchun. Stupid, insensitive fucking _people_ did this to his sister, and no one had had the brains to let her stay with _him_, the only one who could have possibly understood what she was going through. Now, they seemed to realize that they had made a mistake, now they wanted to send her back to Japan to live with her brother and father, babbling something about the 'familiar climate helping her condition,' but _now_ it was too damn late. Jenrya was at a loss. Everyday, the doctors said that she was getting worse, but could not seem to pin point the cause of the degenerative illness.

"_Xiao-xiang_. . ." he said her name slowly, in that childish sing-song tone that always seemed to get her attention so well. She stopped where she was, standing on the sofa with her arms spread out like make-believe wings. Shouchun tilted her head to the side, big brown eyes half-lidded as she stared out at the sky. Jenrya started walking towards her slowly, hoping that she was not planning on testing her new flight theory. "Where does Mr. Birdie want to take you?"

"We're gonna fly away, _Jiang_," her voice suddenly sounded so much older, calmer, more mature than he ever remembered. Jenrya jerked at the sound, rooted in place as she continued, transfixed by the hollow look that clouded her eyes. "You can't stop it; the Digital World needs us."

He covered the space between them in the matter of a few steps, and wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her hair, ribbons tickling his nose. She blinked a few times in confusion, as if trying to adjust to a bright light, and clutched at his shirt. Jenrya bit back a sob, not wanting to frighten her as she asked what was wrong in that worried, girlish little voice of hers.


End file.
